A Point of Authority
by ordinary vamp
Summary: "She. It's a chick linesman. Er, person. Linesperson." Edward gets into an argument with the linesperson at his game. And it leads to more. A lot more. Entry for "Let the Games Begin 2011" one-shot contest. AH, BxE, M.


**My entry for Let the Games Begin 2011 One-shot Contest!**

**A Point of Authority**

Disclaimer: This author is in no way intending any copyright infringement. I do not own The Twilight Saga, nor am I affiliated with it. I do not own the band Linkin Park; nor do I own the song "Points of Authority", of which this one-shot is named after, mostly.

A/N: I've shamelessly named him Strikerward. Come and enjoy him getting antsy over the authority. This is M for a reason… just sayin'.

_This goes out to my beta, Duchess Michelle. She was there when I couldn't get the ideas to flow. And when they did, she made my words pretty. Thank you, sweet pea!_

_Forfeit the game  
Before somebody else  
Takes you out of the frame  
And puts your name to shame  
~Linkin Park, "Points of Authority"_

_The Linesman_

It's a gorgeous day. The sun is gloriously bright, heat rolling down from the sun in waves. There's just enough cloud coverage to add the perfect amount of respite from the sun as they amble passed it. The grass is freshly cut – that special smell filling my nose.

Too bad I'm fucking working.

I referee soccer. I had started the nearly dead-end job when I was fifteen with the tiny soccer club of my hometown. And I was still here, with my whistle and my flags and my FIFA rule book – although now I'm at the highest class level. Isn't that just scintillating?

Not really.

There were those games, like the present one, that were amazing to line, because the. Boys. Were. Fuckhot. There isn't much for me to justify this except for the fact that I think soccer cleats and knee high socks are amazingly sexy.

The game, on a purely soccer fanatic level, was entertaining to watch. Yes, because of the sexy men. But they played soccer _well_. No doubt, many of these men were looking at a contract with the League. The ball goes back and forth evenly, with smooth passes and remarkable footwork. The ball continually sails through the air, clean and true to the intended target. I could've cried at the skill.

The striker, the centre forward, for Harvard was an absolute _god_ with his dribbling and kicks. He has scary-good accuracy. His hair is blowing in the wind – a weird red colour, kind of like old copper pennies. It twists and curls over the stretchy headband he wears. It's painfully sexy.

The freshly chalked lines are gloriously bright; their contrast to the earthy green electrifying. The men know well enough to keep the ball from going out. There really isn't much for me to do, except listen to the nearly full stadium chant – I do an internal dance for every 'Go Crimson' I hear – for their teams and cry obscenities – many of which are aimed at the refs, but I've learned to deal. On the field, my word is damn near law. That power-trip inciting knowledge lets the curses and name calling slide.

Besides, how the hell was anyone to find the loser shouting in a crowd when everyone was? It was like finding a needle in a damn haystack – and I was _not_ paid enough for that.

The ball sails over the halfway mark, into my side. I run with the ball, making sure to keep in line with it. The flag is in my left hand, bouncing awkwardly against my knee.

There was a damn forward behind the ball. And the second last defenseman; which, ironically, was the goalie. There was the inside right, the sweeper, staying way back, ready to launch the ball up the field again.

It never happens.

The wingman is still there, _behind_ the ball. As soon as his sexy cleat hit the ball, my flag is up. I snap it, enjoying the authoritative crack with selfish glee. Again, I snap it, finally getting the referee's attention. He catches on to the offside play and blows his whistle.

_Finafuckingly._ He's a nice guy – I give Banner that – but certainly not the brightest.

I'm waiting patiently for the free kick to be delivered when the centre forward with the interesting hair stalks in my direction.

_The Striker_

Was the referee blind?

James wasn't fucking offside. I was there, dammit. _I saw_.

Before I know what the hell I'm doing, I'm up in the linesman's face.

"Last time I checked, you had to be behind the second last defenseman, and with possession of the ball to be offside," I snap.

He looks taken aback. "Well, the last time _I_ checked, he was in possession of the ball. He touched the ball, therefore he interfered with play."

_She. _Fuckin' A, it's a damned chick linesman. Er, person. Linesperson.

"He was onside when his foot came in contact with the ball, miss," I sneer; I can't help it. She looks like she's twelve. What the fuck is she doing at_ my_ game? I hear the whistle shrill, the noise coming closer to us. She touches her wrist – the damn time has stopped. _Great_.

"No he was not. Do I stutter?" she looks over my shoulder. Up and over, my shoulder – this chick is short – shielding her eyes as she waves to the referee.

"Can't take a simple discussion, huh?" I mutter, under my breath. Her eyes collide with mine, and I'm taken aback at their fierce blaze. I can't quite tell what color they are, but they're dark. And deep. And mother fucking furious.

"Son, what can I help you with?" the ref asks, sidling up to my left. He looks down at the tiny linesperson, searching for answers.

"Banner, he doesn't believe that the player was offside. I saw it – the wingman was behind the goalie, and in front of the sweeper. With the ball in his position. It doesn't get anymore offside than that," she says, her words pointed towards me.

"Besides, anyone with even a little knowledge of the game is able to understand that," she comments, nonchalantly.

"Damn't James wasn't offside," I say, marching right up to the linesman's face. I bend down, so we're eye level.

"Number 21! Get away from the linesperson," the referee shouts. There's a hand on my shoulder pulling me back. "She's made her decision, and I stand by it."

I see Jasper and Emmett inching their way closer.

"She's wrong, ref. I was there," I bark.

There was something odd with me in this situation. I never argued with the refs over their calls. _Never_. Not when I played house league, not in All Star, and not in Rep. But I am absolutely convinced that James wasn't offside. He was in an onside position when the ball was passed, and when he received it. There is no mother fucking ands, ifs or buts.

The damn chick ref is probably PMSing or some shit, and my stadium had to deal with it. I was infuriated that this witless, untalented female ref would make such a mistake…

But, putting it that way, there seems to be no other option for her.

The game is tied at one all. It is the second half. There can be _no_ tie. The game, if it ends in a tie, will go into overtime. Then shoot outs.

And the game, thanks to the premenstrual woman – it's a bloody dirty word, right now; _woman_ – would call James offside. Especially because he would have put us a goal ahead. Easily.

She probably did it on purpose.

The ref is subtly pushing me out of the way. But I'm angry and stupid and running on adrenaline from the game and I step around him to the linesman. Her dark eyes flash before they're a shield of authority. She won't back down.

I'm stupid enough to think I can change that.

"Listen, ref, I know you think he was offside, but he wasn't. _He wasn't_. So, you know, take the call back and we'll be on our merry fucking way," I say, my voice stiff.

"Yellow Card!" Banner roars somewhere behind me. I turn around, looking to see what unlucky bastard – not thinking the time is stopped, and most of the players are sitting or stretching.

He's walking to me. _To. Me_. "What the hell did I do?"

"You swore. To my linesman. That's unsportsmanlike conduct, son – its dissent. For all intents and purposes it _should_ be a red." He's raising his eyebrow like I got off easy.

I also understand that he's challenging me.

He wants to give me another yellow.

_One yellow plus one yellow equals one red_. And one fucking red puts me on the shit list with the Coach. More so than I probably already am, thanks to the witless _woman_.

I'm swallowing my pride as the ref holds the card up in my face. I can hear my school absolutely losing their shit.

As they should. I'm the goddamn captain. And I behave…

Normally.

I glance back at the linesperson, who looks like the cat that got the damn ostrich. I sneer before walking back onto the field.

"How much time has passed?" I ask Jasper, the midfielder.

"You're a fuckface, you know that?" he says, otherwise ignoring my question.

"You're a dick. How much time has passed?" I repeat.

"About ten minutes, douche-muncher." He moves back into his position.

MIT is given a direct free kick. It's to sweeten the deal for the wait, I'm positive, especially because it was, quite literally a _free_ kick.

James is the first to get the ball, once it crosses the half mark. He takes it down the side, careful to stay onside – it doesn't really matter, because he took the ball from an onside to an offside. I keep pace with him, weaving in between middle fielders and defensemen with ease. James is a genius with the footwork, but outside of that, he doesn't shine so much intellectually. Otherwise, he would've understood that he was safe, onside. I know for a fact the Athletic program at Harvard dishes out the big bucks to keep his GPA high enough for the soccer team.

He's almost boxed in when the ball is sailing over their heads to me. I use my chest to stop the ball, letting it drop to my feet. I'm quick to take a step back and launch it.

Right over the goalie's outstretched hands and into the top left corner. James comes barrelling over to me and jumps on my back. Biers, the other wingman, launches him self at me.

The ref blows his whistle, points to the centre mark.

_Goooooaaaaalllll_. When I was younger, I had an unnatural obsession with South American soccer. With almost every game that I watched, the drawn out, adrenaline pumping word gave me tingles along my spine. I smiled, embracing the feeling now.

The opposing team is putting on the pressure. I can tell because elbows are used excessively. Feet are connecting with my feet. There's a point when Biers is sent flying from a violent hip check. The ref looks the other way. I'm furious. I shoot a look at the linesperson, but she's too busy watching the game. And missing half of the other side's antics.

I can tell when the game is almost finished. The referees are looking at their watches more and more. MIT picks up on it; they don't even try to hide their shit. They're a decent team, normally, but they've resorted to childish plays.

Desperation makes people do stupid stuff. It doesn't really matter, though.

In the end we take a beating. But we win.

We do our customary hand shake in the middle. I'm fairly sure that a couple of the douche's have spit on their hands – the childish bastards. I'm obligated to shake the referees' hands, as the captain. I can feel the Coach drilling holes into my back with his eyes. I try to make nice with the chick; I smile as I grab her hand, and _Jesus Christ_ it's the softest skin I've ever felt. I gasp before I smile. She's kind of pretty. And now that I'm not quite so pissed off, I notice her eyes are a sparkly brown. She's kind of attractive, I muse.

Kind of.

I'm walking to the change rooms slowly, thinking about the Linesperson. There isn't much to my thoughts – it's mostly just her face. Her expressive eyes.

"Cullen!" Coach barks from the change room. Coach barks all the time. I don't think much of it.

Until I'm face to face with the unnatural puce blob that has swallowed up Coach Clapp.

"What in all the nine circles of hell were you thinking, attacking the linesman like that?" he snaps. His eyes are being overtaken by his skin. He's puffing.

"James wasn't offside. Sir," I add, because I'm hoping to butter him up. Which is fucking stupid, because the man coach's college soccer. He'd eat me with his regular breakfast of rusty nails.

"You're a goddamn idiot. James was fucking offside. It took you a while to get in here, but you just missed me rip him a new asshole," he sneers.

"And to think," he continues, "that you would go vigilante player turned referee on us. Thank Christ we have you, Cullen, or I don't know what would happen to this team." Coach rolls his eyes to the heavens.

_This can't be good_. I feel stupid for thinking the cliché.

"So, tell me, Edward, when's the big day?" Coach asks.

"What day, sir?"

"The day you die."

I hear Emmett and Jasper snicker. The rest of the guys have enough decency to cover up their laughs with coughs.

"Why, Coach?"

"Well, because then you're beatified," he responds, condescension dripping from his words.

"Like a saint, sir?"

"The beatification leads to being canonized. When is it?" he asks.

I'm not sure how to answer – but I don't get a chance to.

"Because it is going to be pretty fucking soon, Cullen, if you don't smarten the fuck up," Coach pats me on the back.

"C'mon, Crimson, you all did well," he's looking pointedly at me – his eyes are contradicting his words. _No, shit, Sherlock_.

"Some players had unnatural behaviour." This time his glare is filled with invisible lasers. "Regardless, I'm proud. It's off to the quarter finals, boys."

There is an absolute manic roar that fills the locker room. Jasper and Emmett swallow the coach between them. James and Biers and Newt are doing some sort of weird three-way chest-bump. Matt jumps on my back and we capture Yorkie, tackling him to the ground.

"Congratulations, boys. You can go and party later tonight. You can have tomorrow off." The second cheer is almost as loud as the first. "However, there's a practice bright and early on Sunday. And thanks to your wonderful captain, we can all do suicides." He smiles and leaves. "Seven o'clock, boys." Coach Clapp shouts.

As soon as the door clicks, a deathly silence fills the locker room.

"I was offside, Cullen," James says sheepishly.

"Damn mother fucker shit humping monkey riding goat herder," I mutter.

"And thanks to him, we can look forward to suicides. On a Sunday morning," Emmett says. His goalie gloves are still on.

"You're an ass, eh? Why were you picking on some little kid? He look at you funny?" Newt asks.

"She," I murmur.

"No fucking shit!" Jasper and Yorkie exclaim.

"Yeah." I can feel my neck heat. I'm uncomfortable with this knowledge being shared. No good can come from this; that much is obvious. My punishment, however, is unseen. It's going to be painful and embarrassing. _No one_ likes suicides.

"You were told off by a she-ref, got a yellow card, scored a goal," Emmett lists, lifting a finger with each tick. "And gave is suicides."

I'm silent. I'm fucking resolute in my silence.

And them I'm screaming like someone knocked an ice cream from my hand. They have me by the legs and around me neck and my team – my comrades in cleats – are carrying me to the shower. I can hear the water beat down on the tiles over my shrieks.

I'm not even embarrassed at the sounds. I'm too petrified at the thought of what's going to happen to me.

"He's a little hot, don't you think, boys?" Emmett cries to my team. The guys shout their affirmatives.

Jasper touches the back of his hand to my forehead. "Fucking burning." I can all but see his damn smirk.

"A cold shower, would be appropriate, don't you think?" Emmett continues.

"It's only right," Matt agrees amicably.

I'm airborne.

Then I'm slumped under a relentless stream of icicles pricking my skin. "Do you know what happens in cold water?" I shout, thinking of all the free ass that's available tonight.

I broke the tie. I'm a goddamn hero. But these _animals_ are treating my like shit on their cleats.

"Has your tiny dick become inverted yet?" Newt suggests. Everyone guffaws.

"I hate you, you bastards." But then I'm laughing too, because it was funny, if slightly unoriginal.

It takes me a while to stand – cleats have absolutely no traction on the slick tiles. But then I'm up and out, flicking my team mates on the ass with my wet jersey. It's a fucking testosterone fest in there, but it's the usual.

~:~

Coach calls me into his office when I'm about to leave.

I'm supposed to apologize to the ref. Or face being benched for the rest of the finals.

He's serious – I can tell. His blue eyes are looking tiredly, but resolutely, over his glasses, straight into mine.

I'm grumbling as I walk to the referee's office. It's inside the stadium, tucked into a little corner.

I knock on the door uncertainly, not knowing if it's going to be the ref, or one of the linesmen.

"What can I do…" her voice fades as she recognizes me. "Oh."

Just "oh". "Um, yeah, can I well… may we talk?"

She deliberates. "Sure."

She steps outside the door, and she's managed to shower in the time since the game. There is some sort of fruity scent that follows her; it tickles my nose in the most tantalizing way. She's wearing one of those strapless shirt things, which flutters 'til it stops at the tops of her jeans. Her amazingly skinny capris jeans.

She pauses momentarily to lock the door, then turns to face me. She looks up at me, expectant. She's two seconds from tapping her fingers against her arms, crossed over her chest; I can tell. Her impatience is slightly unnerving. I don't do well with being unnerved.

"I'm, well, I'm sorry," I blurt. I _had_ some sort of speech planned. But why sound articulate when words can fall uselessly from my mouth?

"Oh." Again. Her eyebrows are raised, her big doe eyes even bigger.

"Yeah, it wasn't right for me to argue with you like that. I mean, James didn't do anything wrong…" This is an obvious lie. "But I shouldn't have questioned you like that." Honestly, I have no idea why I'm still going on. I feel like duct tape a la kidnap is in order for me.

"Fuck you." She looks satisfied.

"What?" I don't know where the outrage is coming from. I'm so totally in the wrong, I may actually be right. I'm banking on this.

"He. Was. Offside," she growls. She pushes past me, her shoulder connecting with the middle of my stomach.

She jumps back slightly – I arrogantly believe this is because she didn't think it would be quite so hard.

"Fine," I snap.

"Fine."

She continues walking away, her shirt billowing about her delectable ass.

Those referee uniforms are the ugliest pieces of garbage I've ever seen, I decide. It's clearly the uniform's fault as to why I thought she was a he. But her hair is unnaturally short; it barely reaches the top of her shirt. And she was using contraband hair pins to keep it from her face – I can see them pinned to her shirt.

I wonder of she's wearing a bra.

I slap my forehead, saving that thought before the water damaged goods decide they want in on it too.

"Hey, wait!" I race up to her, nearly colliding with her back at her abrupt stop.

"I-" I don't know what to say.

"Save it. You may have nice footwork, but you're a douche." She bites the words. Her lips wrestle them. Her tongue throttles them. She probably wants to throttle me – I'm taking sick pleasure in my make-believe scenarios. It's amazingly hot. And stupid.

"How can you tell?" I ask. I don't consider myself a douche.

"You apologize, but you won't admit you're wrong. I saw you glare at me when your player fell. He had first possession of the ball – MIT was justified," she huffs.

"What? Biers went sprawling when his foot barely touched the damn ball!"

"Leave me alone." She walks away, an angry sway to her hips.

"No." I tug her arm, swirling her around.

"Get your fucking hands away from me," she hisses.

I'm bending down, first to get eye level. But then, her lips are there, plump and for the picking. And then, mine are on hers, gently at first, before putting on more pressure to gain a response.

She's very responsive.

Her hands drop her crap to grip my shoulders. I drive my hands into her hair. Her tongue works its way into mouth, drawing along my teeth and stroking my own. She pushes me to the wall, and she's on her tip toes to even the height, and she's arched her back for better access. My pants are way too fucking tight right now, because my dick has decided to join the party.

I break away to trail kisses along her neck, taking a moment to suck the skin right below her ear. It's positively divine.

She's panting, rubbing her hands along my shoulders. "I… I have… to go."

She pushes me away, immediately bending down to grab her bag. "Bye," she waves over her shoulder and races down the corridor.

"What's your name?" I shout. She hears me – I can hear her giggle reverberate back to me – but she doesn't respond.

~:~

I party really damn hard for two days and nights. By Sunday morning, I've been steamrolled by Jamison, Jack Daniels and Seagrams. I'm pretty sure Captain Morgan led the brigade at one point too, but it's kind of blurry. Actually, it's mostly a blur. I remember looking for the hot referee wherever I go, but I don't see her.

I kiss a lot of brunettes though, just to make sure. I think.

I'm not the only one that's been beaten up. Most of the guys are rubbing their eyes or wearing sunglasses. One look at Coach and I know the damn devil himself couldn't have come up with a better scheme to make us – me – pay.

Well, the devil probably could have, but I don't want to see what he'd have in store for me. I'm enough shit lists as it is, right now.

The Coach is pretty damn impressed with himself – hung over suicides. He's asked me if I apologized, and I tell him I did. Which isn't a lie, but it's not the whole truth either.

"Cullen!" he shouts, and I swear to God that there are fireworks exploding behind my eyes.

"Grab the pylons and the balls," he mutters. I glare, but do as I'm told.

Carrying that stuff is a bitch. But I make it, after hitting my knee on every object even remotely in the way.

He begins with the suicides, in two heats. We're running and touching the ground for an aeon. When he finally – _finally_ – blows the whistle, I collapse to the ground.

"It'll be easy from here on out, boys. We'll do a scrimmage. Shirts and skins!" he shouts. There is a collective wince.

"He couldn't have let us win in peace, could he?" Emmett grumbles. "No he's playing mind games with us, or some shit."

"I blame you," Jasper whispers, and I shiver. I can only imagine what he's thinking of doing to me. I'd probably do the same – what ever it is – if I were him.

"You're a dip shit, you damn cherry picker," Emmett grumbles. He _hates_ cherry pickers. Every goalie does, basically. And he rags on me and my position.

"Hey, hey, hey, dude. I don't pick cherries – I pop them," I laugh.

"You're a prick." Emmett smacks my head, but he smiles. Begrudgingly.

We scrimmage in the growing morning heat. It's mainly to prepare Emmett, and his sub, Matt. I'm running back and forth in the game I absolutely adore – it's the best I've felt all day.

I'm passing and slipping through the cracks in the defensemen. I'm in the fucking zone today.

"Coach?" I call, as we walk back to the locker room. I'm sweaty and sticky – I can feel all the alcohol oozing out of my body.

"Yeah, Cullen?"

"What's the name of that referee?" I ask. "You know –"

"I know." He's suspicious. "I thought you said you apologized." He's looking at me intensely, peering over the top of his glasses, his eyebrows drawn together.

"I did, but I wasn't able to get her name." _Was that before or after her tongue was shoved in your mouth?_

He laughs, like he's sees my thoughts on my face. "You're on your own, kid."

~:~

I receive many glares and death threats in the change room, but thankfully, no cold showers.

Emmett occasionally referees with the local soccer club. It's a Women's A game in the afternoon this time.

"Dude, you could scope out soccer chicks!" he says, happily. "We've all got amazing stamina – and you know what that means." He punctuates this with wiggled eyebrows.

"I'm coming," Jasper throws out noncommittally.

"Sure."

Maybe I'll see the ref again.

~:~

These girls are hot. They're all running around with soccer cleats and knee high socks and sports bras. It's mother fucking sexy as hell.

Emmett looks like some sort of weird gorilla with the black uniform he wears – it's bursting at the seams. He's only lining today; he's got a bright orange flag that his oldest brother used to use. He's ten years older than Emmett.

He talks with the other referees – both men. I'm so disappointed with this, I'm almost tempted to leave. Instead, I take my time, perusing the selection. Eleven girls on each side. Twenty-two women, plus the subs. It's soccer chick heaven.

I see her. She's a soccer player today. Her jersey's already on, tucked into her shorts. She's got fuck-me blue cleats on – these aren't the business shoes from Friday.

Her hair is pulled back in two ponytails. Her bangs are kept in place with an elastic headband. My pants are tightening in the most embarrassing and hurtful way.

She is so amazingly beautiful. I know that I'm going to try my damnedest to talk to her.

The game is a good one. I notice two things immediately: girls are rougher than guys playing soccer – and they're sneaky about it.

My ref is an amazing goalie. She's light and she fucking flies through the air to get the ball. Her drop kicks have amazing accuracy. She positions her defence perfectly when the corner kicks start. She's a godsend to her team – they worship her.

The first half ends with a shutout for her; which is amazing for anyone, but she had _twelve_ shots on net. I spot her defensemen's weakness – the sweepers are not so aggressive – but she more than makes up for their lack.

She's fucking perfect.

As she walks back to where her shit is kept, I notice she limps a little bit; favouring her left leg. It's the answer to why she doesn't play for a school or something. (I surely would have heard of her skill and I _hadn't_.) Injuries are the bane of every athlete's existence.

"Dude," I mutter, nudging Jasper.

"Yeah?"

"That's the ref." I nod in her direction. "The goalie for the lime green team."

"Fuckin' A." He whistles.

"I know."

"And you confused _that_ for a dude."

"Fuck you, bro. You did too."

"Mmhmm." _Nice response, jackass._ Jasper was such a child at times – he was worse than the Neanderthal refereeing.

The second half is just as entertaining as the first. I'm drawn into to the game as much as I am to her.

She isn't in net anymore, but playing midfield. Her throw-ins are strong. She's got a mother fucking kick like a damn horse. She's on the opposing team like white on rice. She's so beautiful when she runs, even with the slight limp. There's an air of grace about her – it's addicting to watch.

She assists a goal. She smiles, and laughs. The sound is electrifying; straight through my stomach to my dick. My hard-on is almost unbearable at this point.

She's courteous to the opposing team once the three trills of the whistle blow, signalling the end of the game. She's not the captain – it's some voluptuous blonde – but she goes and thanks the referees anyways.

I'm walking to the field, near the center mark, where's she's chit chatting with some of the other players/

"You're an amazing player," I comment. Her back stiffens. Slowly, she pivots.

"You," she gasps. She moves towards me.

"Me?"

"What in all the blazes are you doing here?" she huffs. She looks up at me, with the same shield of authority eyes from the game. It's hot.

"My friend, the Missing Link," a thumb over my shoulder points to Emmett, "lined for you today."

"I don't see why you're here," she points out.

"It's not important." I'm not about to tell her it's because I wanted to find her. Stalker-ish prowess never works with women.

"Really." She's cocked her hip, arms crossed over her chest.

"Yeah, so um…" I start. Why do I start? "I'm Edward Cullen." There – a nice finish.

"I know," she smirks. "I had to do a report because you were carded."

Fuck. Me. She makes incident reports sound sexy. "It's fair then, don't you think, that I know your name."

She deliberates. "Bella Swan."

Fucking A. What a gorgeous name. Bella Bella Bella.

There's this uncomfortable silence. It stretches around us, in that mildly painful way that skin pulls over a new tattoo.

"I'm sorry for the kiss." Bella's planned to apologize, I can tell. She looks purposeful.

"Don't. I'm not," I say.

I get a total 'go fuck your self' look. I respond with a cocky raised eyebrow; 'but I'd rather fuck _you_', it says.

That damned quiet is back. I look past her shoulder; there's a collection of girls looking at us.

"Jesus Christ. This is stupid," she mutters.

"What is?" I ask.

She steps closer, her chest brushing against me. "This."

She up on her tip toes, brushing her lips against mine; once, twice, three times, before sticking on the fourth. I open up immediately, sucking her bottom into my mouth. Her tongue rubs along my top lip. I swear my knees quake.

I nibble and suck her lip. I massage it with my tongue. Suddenly it's gone, replaced with Bella's tongue. I trace mine along its edges. She shivers and rubs her chest against mine. I can feel her hard peaks through our shirts. I'm so painfully hard right now I may actually break through my shorts.

"We need to fucking leave." I pull away, and tow Bella behind me.

"Wait. What?"

"We're going to my place." I say definitively.

"Who says I'm coming?" Bella is all sass and ferocity.

I pull her chest right up against mine again, and kiss her furiously. "That does."

We make it to my car, without stopping to kiss. But the distance was too long; Bella's sitting on the trunk. I've lifted her there. I'm in between her legs and I'm kissing her again, my tongue following the rolling pattern of my hips. She moans, grinding her hips to mine.

"C'mon," she pushes me away, and jumps unsteadily to her feet. She wobbles for a second before entering the car through the passenger side.

As we drive, Bella's hand is on my thigh, inching closer and closer to my pitched tent. I groan, biting my lips and running my hand through my hair.

I'm out of the door and picking her up as soon as the damn car has stopped, kissing her quickly before she _slides down my body_.

We run up the tiny apartment's steps. Her cleats make the rhythmic click-click-click, the sound so familiar to me. It's fucking better than the noise of stilettos tapping.

She pushes me against my door. Bella's refuses to go on her tip toes; instead, I'm bent at the middle, with her sucking on my neck.

"Edward," she gasps.

It takes me a couple seconds to open the door. I refuse to face it, instead inserting the keys and turning the door handle backwards. It's almost painful, my left wrist popping.

I refuse to stop again. We're so damn close; I can almost taste her on my tongue. I drop her on the bed. She bounces once, twice, before she stops. I rip off her jersey.

She has a sports bra underneath. It is the most erotic thing I've ever seen. I don't even know why.

Maybe I do. Maybe it has something to do with the knee high soccer socks and cleats. The bra more or less completes the look. That shit makes me want to launch my rocket so bad it's damn painful.

She's leaning back on her elbows; her feet dangling off the bed. I skim my mouth and my nose down her front, kissing her through her soccer shorts – I can smell her. My eyes roll back into my face. It's the best, sweetest thing that has ever filled my nose. It's better than her nose.

"Jesus, Edward." I kiss down her legs, taking her soccer shorts along with me. I pause, momentarily to take her cleats off, the extra clatter as they hit the hardwood satisfying. I throw the shorts over my head.

I take a moment to look at her in the blue sports bra and blue boy shorts and lime green socks. It's fucking delectable.

"Edward. Get your fucking clothes off if you value your dick," she growls.

"If you insist," I smirk. I rip me shirt over me head. My shorts follow suit, along with my boxers. I stand before her totally in the nude. Her eyes peruse my body with a hungry lust that burns my skin. She pauses at my cock, and licks her lips. I'm near done for.

She crawls to the edge of the bed. Bella looks up at me, a silent question that hangs before us. As an answer, I jut me hips out slightly. Greedily, Bella drags her tongue along the bottom of my shaft before placing a kiss to the head of my dick. It's simple and intimate and so amazingly right feeling. My head falls back and I groan.

She sucks me in slowly, inch by inch. Her hands cover what her mouth isn't able to. Bella twists her hand. I groan for a long time through my clenched teeth.

"I'm not going to last much longer, love," I ground out. She looks up at me, a devilish smile painting her features.

With a final kiss to my cock, she moves up me body, her nose and tongue and fingers trailing the lines of my abs, nuzzling me neck. I collapse to the bed, my body covering hers. Bella's still kissing and sucking and biting my neck. She's giving me a damn hicky – the thought goes straight to my hard-on.

"I need you out of this, Bella." I'm already pulling at it, lifting it up and over her head.

Bella has the Motherland of tits. Seriously, she should be modelling with Victoria's Secret with her perky breasts.

I kiss and play with her breasts for a while, with my right and. My left is teasing her nether lips, slipping and sliding along the slick skin. I'm kissing her nipples and taunting them with my tongue. I nibble around their edges. Bella squirms underneath me. Her knee highs scratch my calves. I don't mind it so much, but the damn synthetic fibres are _itchy_. And irritating. She's ready and pleading, but _I will not_ stand the socks.

To look at? They are as sexy as fuck. _To_ fuck? Not so damn much.

"Soon, sweet pea, soon," I murmur, moving down her curvy, athletic body to remove her socks. And shin pads. Even those damn things are hot on her. I shake me head; fully knowing my hair is probably tickling the sensitive flesh behind her knees.

"Edward," she groans. Bella pulls me up by my ears, and kisses me wildly. Blindly, I reach for the condoms stored handily in my nightstand. Bella breaks the kiss to rip the foil while I hold it. Her teeth skim my thumb, and I shiver violently.

I slip on the glove, than I'm in Bella. I'm fully sheathed. No more teasing – we both couldn't have handled it.

I pull out to slam into her again. Bella thrusts up to meet me. It's a lovely feeling, being inside her. I'll have to let my tongue enjoy the feeling later.

She rolls her hips. She kisses me, chastely, and clasps my hands. We sigh.

We've created a steady and furious rhythm for us. It's delectable.

Bella is beautiful as she reaches her peak. Her cheeks flush. Her gasps come in short bursts and her eyes are clear enough to see into – until they're not. They glaze over, and the bliss, when she finally climaxes, is awe-inspiring.

I follow not long after, her name a cry from my swollen lips. I collapse on top of her, dead weight. We're comfortable in the post-coital bliss.

Later, but not by much, Bella is in my soccer jersey. _My soccer jersey_. I get hard thinking about it.

We're in bed still, eating Chinese delivery, talking and flirting and learning.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"When you were wrong, and I was right on Friday…" she groans, and tries to punch me. I snort, but continue, "Did you think this was going to happen?"

She's silent, pondering the question. "No. I guess I wanted it to, though. I noticed you for two reasons; firstly, you were so damn gorgeous, and secondly, because you clearly were one of the best players on the field." Bella smiles up at me timidly, a blush creeping up her face.

"I thought you were a dude," I blurt.

She raises a single eyebrow.

"Well, your hair was all pulled back – seriously, how much hair spray and hair pins were used – and that uniform was – _is_ – hideous. You don't have boobs in that thing," I say seriously. I know my tone makes it out to be blasphemous, but it is. She's got breasts, and she should let the world know she is a woman.

And on a second thought, she probably shouldn't. There are more piggish men than myself playing soccer.

Bella laughs. The sound is gorgeous. "I know, I know. The uniforms were made unisex – but really. There are so few female refs, and even less at such a high level."

"You don't play with a school, do you?" I ask.

A long-suffering, pained look crosses her face. "No, I don't," Bella replies quietly.

I don't ask why. It hurts her too much, and the idea of a hurting Bella hurts me.

"I was playing soccer with my rep team," she begins. "I'm from east bum-fuck Washington State, and the field was terribly water damaged, after a horrendous rainstorm. Another girl and I were fighting for the ball. My foot was stuck in some really soft ground and we both fell; she on my knee."

"Fuck, love, I'm sorry," I say. The nickname falls easily from my mouth again. Whether she catches is it or not, she doesn't respond.

"It's not so bad, not really. I still have to stretch it and stuff. I tore two ligaments, and cracked my knee cap." I look, involuntarily to her knee.

There is a faint web of scars. It's pretty, in a morbid way.

"So, Edward, when you were wrong and I was not, and _once you realized I'm a girl_, did you think this would happen?" she smiles, and it's desperate around the edges. I follow her lead, anxious to change the topic.

"It wasn't 'til the kiss," I smile. Bella looks faintly surprised, before nodding.

"Do you make a habit of shagging players?" I ask, smiling to let her know I'm teasing.

"Do you make it a habit of shagging referees?" she retorts, laughing. I think of the ref we had before her, the overly hairy fat guy. I shudder.

"A poor joke, huh?" I wince.

"You got it."

Bella jumps up from the bed. "I'm going to shower." She looks at me expectantly before slowly lifting the shirt up. I get flashes of the wet jersey clinging to Bella in a most delicious way.

"Leave it."

A/N: Come follow the contest – the link will be on my profile :) Otherwise, it's here: http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/~letthegamesbegincontest. What did you think? Your comments are very much appreciated. As an aside, I did indeed used to ref soccer – my first job, actually. And I may or may not have pulled an Emmett – I called a friend to scope out boys once. Oh, the fun times… I never did get quite as high up as Bella – I did strictly house league.


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